Feathers
by Noise And Hammers
Summary: It wasn't a matter of whether or not John enjoyed watching Sherlock fly. It was simply a matter of how often. And Sherlock flew often. And John caught his feathers. wing!lock AU: info inside. Decided to make this a one shot. (image from alicexz on Tumblr)
1. Prelude

NOTE: So. Winglock. On my list of All Things Good in this Horribly Boring World. Right up there with Benedict's cheekbones and dark chocolate Digestives. Enjoy it.

I'll be working on this along side of _Carry Me Home _and there will be multiple chapters. Updates will be slow. Probably.

PS: I made a song on GarageBand, which I have posted on my soundcloud to go along with this story, because I'm a dork like that. Check it out.

http:/ soundcloud. com /sparklymustaches/feathers

PPS: I KNOW "anthro" and "anthrohuman" are misnomers, but I don't care. And neither should you. Because...well Christ, guys, it's WINGLOCK. Freaking WINGLOCK.

So yeah.

-NH

* * *

FEATHERS

_Prelude_

John was never fond of anthrohumans. He hadn't been around them much as a child, since by then they were only beginning to pop up in Britain, but eventually, they were everywhere, immigrating and emigrating all over the world, and eventually there was no choice but to accept them.

It wasn't that they were any different from regular humans - well, aside from the animal appendages and what not - but it's just that John was honestly jealous. Really, what genetic mutation had he missed out on? Why couldn't his parents have carried the gene? Why did his friend get to have cat eyes but his were just boring and blue? Or why did his commanding officer get to have gills as well as lungs and John was stuck with sucking in air and air only?

Why didn't he get to be special?

As he'd grown older, of course, he'd learned to accept it. Even still, whenever he saw a tail or a paw or a set of hooves, he felt a small sting of jealousy and longing, and he came to accept that he was not only normal, but that he'd never get the chance to be anything else.

John had to learn so many new things because of the anthros in medical school. New medicinal procedures, new questions to ask, new techniques and care instructions that he had to make sure he was aware of. Gills were prone to rashes, reptilian skin needed special moisturizers, avians' bones were easily broken: the list was miles long. But he'd caught on quickly. He'd memorized the facts. He could fix a leg and he could fix a wing. He could stitch fur and flesh. He could birth a leper and a lizard. He could handle it.

That's not to say that he wanted to.

When John returned from the war, he had had the misfortune of running into Mike Stamford again. Mike, who was boring and normal like him. Mike, who had introduced him to civilian life again, making his hand shake. Mike, who knew many anthros and many interesting people.

People like Sherlock Holmes.

The first time John laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, the detective was bent over a microscope in Bart's lab, peering through and toying with the slide beneath with gentle precision. He had wild, ebon curls, pale complexion, and when he'd looked up, John bore witness to his sharp, steely gaze.

But what John held above all else was Sherlock's wings.

Sherlock had a rare wing type, John knew. The span had to have been somewhere around twelve to fourteen feet - on the larger side for his height, John thought. They were immense, with several layers of sleek, dark feathers that had a navy and turquoise sheen, glistening in the dim light. His feathers were long, thick and firm, and when he stood, his wings flexed a bit, perking the feathers and rustling lightly. Mike smiled as John was stirred from his reverie.

"Sorry? What?" he'd stammered, blinking a few times to regain focus from his captivation.

"I said, how do you feel about the violin?"

And John sighed. Because he was going to live with this man. This amazing, spectacular, avian man.

And John was still boring. And Sherlock had beautiful, beautiful wings.

* * *

A/N: So I'm putting this here, and chapter 1 as well. More to come at a later date.


	2. Chapter 1

FEATHERS

1

Sherlock gazed longingly out the window. The sun was glaring through the peak in the clouds, the cool breeze of April rolled about the city. He rested his head on his palm, leaned forward in his chair and his elbow on the window sill. He chewed his lip.

"I want to fly today," he said after a beat. John looked up from his paper.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock turned to look at him.

"I want to fly today," he said again decisively. "Will you come watch?" John blinked slowly. He had lived with the winged detective for a little over a year now, he'd gotten used to hearing the expression. It wasn't a matter of whether or not John enjoyed watching Sherlock fly. It was simply a matter of how often.

And Sherlock flew often.

And John caught his feathers.

"I like it when you watch me," Sherlock said, turning back to the window. John cocked his head, watching as Sherlock's beautiful ebon plumage rustled in the breeze that crept through the window. John wanted so badly, so many times, just to reach out and run his hand down along Sherlock's wing, to stroke his down, to _feel_ his beauty.

John loved Sherlock's wings, truly. Despite all jealousy and annoyance, John adored Sherlock's gift. Because it was truly a gift with Sherlock.

"Well, I like watching you," he said, standing. "It's a lovely day. Why not?" Sherlock looked back at him and beamed, then quickly stood and in a flurry of feathers he turned and strode out the door and up the steps.

"The roof John! Come on!" he called. John sighed through a smile.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he laughed, following his flat mate until they both stood on the roof of the building. Sherlock stood on the ledge, eyes closed as the wind swirled about him. He expanded his wings, letting the air seep through every crevice of them, ruffling his hair and his plumage. He looked back at John with a grin.

"It's so perfect today, John," he said as his wings stretched out. "Absolutely perfect." John gazed up at the winged detective and nodded.

"You said it," he said with a smile. He watched as Sherlock took a deep breath in, his feathers fluttering in the wind, the turquoise sheen making them glisten in the sunlight.

Sherlock was gorgeous. His lean physique paired with his massive, stunning wingspan made him look surreal, other-worldly, nearly angelic. John sat on the ledge, gazing on, and he felt a tug in his chest. He was nothing compared to this glorious creature. He was normal. He was boring. He was ordinary.

Suddenly, Sherlock pounced off the ledge and swooped down, barreling towards the concrete before he pushed up with his wings and shot heavenward, far above John's head. John looked up.

All he could see was Sherlock's silhouette in front of the sun, wings spread and arms out, gliding above him. John sighed.

A feather trickled down then, floating through the air and carried on the wind. John reached up and grasped it. He looked down at the navy-black object in his hand, so fragile and soft and delicate. He twirled it, brushed it with his fingers, ran it across his lips.

A heavy longing sat hard on his chest as he looked up again. Sherlock was gliding on the wind, flying in circles above him. The sun shone warmly on his frame, and John watched, captivated.

To be able to experience such a thing as flight, to feel the wind and the sun so close, all around, engulfing one's entire being with light and freedom and peace...

Envy quickly dissipated as another feather fluttered towards him. He reached up, gingerly plucking it from the air. He cradled it in his hands. These were part of Sherlock, part of his being, pieces of him in John's hands. John swallowed.

He cherished Sherlock so dearly, he truly did. Even if John so longed to be like him, to be different, special. Even if the man was impossible, preening himself at crime scenes, getting his down in John's toothbrush, playing his violin at three in the morning, leaving body parts and experiments in the fridge. But that was Sherlock, and that was the man he'd come to know.

The man he'd come to love.

John looked back up as Sherlock's form circled a few more times before swooping down. The detective's face was flushed, his hair windswept and his chest heaving. He looked positively exquisite, and the wild look in his silver eyes made John nearly shiver.

"You're beautiful, you know," he said without thinking. Sherlock cocked a brow and drew closer to John, smirking.

"Thank you," he said, panting lightly. He looked down at John's hands. "Caught a few then?"

John looked down at the feathers he had clasped in his hands.

"Oh, yeah," he said. He held them up, twirling them. Sherlock grinned and put his hand on John's shoulder.

"Keep them if you want," he said. "I know you like them." John coloured.

"Oh..well...yeah...I mean they're nice..." he stammered, breaking eye contact. Of course Sherlock would have noticed his staring, his longing, his distant adoration. John dropped his hand, hanging his head.

"Sorry, I know that's a little weird," he admitted. Sherlock shook his head. The tenderness in his eyes was a bit foreign, a little alarming, and when John looked up, he felt a bit uncomfortable, shifting where he stood. The wind swept around them, the sun beat down lovingly, Sherlock's feathers rustled and he brought his hand up to John's face, stroking his cheek with a thumb. The gentle touch sent shivers down the doctor's spine; this was...odd.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked softly. John swallowed, the silvery eyes drawing him in, closer, subconsciously capturing him.

"Yes..." he breathed. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

Sherlock smiled, leaned in, and pressed his lips to John's forehead, then pulled away and gave John's good shoulder a loving squeeze before turning to go back inside.

"Let's get some lunch," he said without turning. "Come on."

He descended the stairs. And John stood, still grasping the feathers, face flushed a deep crimson.

And though John Watson was no winged individual, no incredible anthrohuman, he swore, in that one moment, just for that one brief moment, he had wings. Beautiful wings. And he soared.


End file.
